


Wet Ink

by ignaz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Time, Hate Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Religion, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 08:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12077685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/ignaz
Summary: Nobody had ever called JJ a shithead before. Nobody had ever saidscrew youto him. Those were ugly words to come from someone who looked like that.JJ loses, and loses, and loses.





	Wet Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to V for eleventh-hour assistance; any remaining errors are all mine. (For NSFW Yurio Week, Day 2: biting/marking.)

Like most of the top men in the competitive figure skating world, Jean-Jacques Leroy had greeted the news that Victor Nikiforov was taking the season off with a mixture of disappointment and determination.

Disappointment—Nikiforov had been a marvel on the ice, truly blessed, a wonder to watch. JJ had admired him since childhood. His father had once joked that JJ looked up to three men: himself, Jesus Christ, and Victor Nikiforov. One of the first to not only choreograph his own programs, but also commission his own music, Nikiforov had inspired JJ to set off on his own path. Sure, he was getting old, and probably couldn’t keep up with the others anymore, but things just wouldn’t be the same without him. 

And determination—with Nikiforov in the running, nobody else could hope to take gold at the Grand Prix. For as long as Victor had been on his winning streak, the best anyone else could aim for was silver. JJ himself had only managed to take bronze when competing against him.

But with Victor out of the picture, that was all over. This season was anyone’s to win.

Well, not just anyone’s. JJ’s, to be exact.

There was no one to beat him. Nikiforov was out. Cao Bin had retired at the end of last season. JJ could take Giacometti easily, and Crispino was no threat. He’d trained with Otabek Altin and Leo de la Iglesia—strong skaters both, but even they couldn’t compete with him.

He’d been training harder than ever before, and praying on it every day. It was time to make his mark. This was his year.

It was good to be the King.

—

At warmups before Skate Canada, JJ glanced over to see a blonde girl smoothly landing a quadruple toe loop, and had to do a double take when he realized she was a guy.

Then he remembered seeing the same kid the year before at the Junior Grand Prix Finals. He hadn’t been planning to watch the junior competition, but he’d been there, talking to Isabella, when the noise from the stands made him turn and look.

JJ had had to hand it to him. The kid was good. Way ahead of the others in his division. If he made it to seniors he might even be great someday.

And then JJ promptly forgot all about him.

He hadn’t paid much attention to the competition in his assigned events this year. He’d seen that Michele Crispino would be at Rostelecom, but wasn’t worried about it. The Czech skater, Emil, who had always seemed like a friendly kind of guy, would be at Rostelecom _and_ Skate Canada, which was all right—JJ wouldn’t mind him taking silver. The rest of the names he didn’t give a second thought.

He skated nearer to the blond kid, who was now taking a water break. “Hey!” he said, smiling.

The kid looked over, pulling at the collar of his warmup shirt and wiping his mouth on it. Up close it was obvious he wasn't a girl. The kid peered up at him in stone-faced silence.

“Nice quad toe loop,” JJ said, still grinning. “I didn’t know ladies could land them!”

The kid’s eyes widened and his face contorted with shock. A split second later the shock went away and was replaced by a furious scowl. In a Russian accent and a much deeper voice than JJ had expected, he said, “Screw you, shithead.”

Nobody had ever called JJ a shithead before. Nobody had ever said _screw you_ to him. Those were ugly words to come from someone who looked like that. JJ didn’t swear himself; he was raised right. Maybe this kid hadn’t been so lucky.

“Just kidding!” he said. He gestured at his own head to indicate what he'd meant.

Blondie put his water bottle down on the boards, said “Bite me,” and skated away.

JJ watched him go. “Ha,” he said. It was going to be a fun season.

—

He beat Yuri at Skate Canada. Not that he’d been worried about it. The kid was still good, but he was no match for the King.

He was fun to joke around with, though. He always bristled like a porcupine. Or a cat.

“Let’s meet again on the podium at the Rostelecom Cup, Yuri,” he said in Mississauga. “See you there!”

Yuri had given him a look that could have smelted his medal.

In Moscow, he’d seemed even angrier. “Ladies first,” JJ had teased him rinkside, and Yuri looked like he wanted to skate across JJ’s throat. But then he looked that way at the Japanese Yuuri, too, and they seemed to be friends.

In the locker room later, JJ noticed Yuri staring at him while he changed. Well, that was hardly a surprise.

“Like what you see?” JJ added a wink.

Yuri recoiled, his face twisted in horror. “ _Ew_ ,” he said. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hey, you’re the one checking me out.”

Yuri crossed his arms over his chest. “I was looking at your stupid tattoos. Why do you have one on your _ass_?”

“It’s on my back,” JJ explained. “But you can look at my butt if you want. No touching, though! Ha!”

“I wouldn’t touch your ass with a ten-meter pole, dickface,” Yuri snarled, grabbing his jacket and gym bag and storming out of the locker room without even changing clothes.

So maybe Yuri didn’t like him. That was okay. They were competitors, not friends. JJ already had lots of friends. He had his mom and dad. He had Isabella.

He proposed to Isabella at his post-Rostelecom Cup victory party. They’d been together for two years, since they were in high school. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever known, and he wanted to marry her. Settle down. Raise a family.

She said yes, of course. JJ hadn’t been worried. He didn’t worry about proposing to Isabella, and he didn’t worry about losing. It wasn’t JJ style to lose.

—

He lost in Barcelona.

Maybe it was something he ate. Maybe it was thinking about Isabella, about what she’d said, about how he’d win it all and then they’d finally be married, united in the eyes of God, able to live together as man and wife.

Maybe it was Otabek Altin.

Whatever the reason, Barcelona was a disaster, the worst of his career, and he knew he was lucky to even take bronze.

In the center of the podium, Yuri Plisetsky looked grimly satisfied, posing for photos with his bouquet and his gold medal.

Isabella still wanted to marry him despite the bronze.

“I want a spring wedding,” she said. “After Worlds. Can we have it at Casa Loma?”

—

At Worlds, he didn’t even place.

It was no consolation that neither did Yuri.

Nobody could have predicted that Victor would come back that strong after a nine-month break. It was unheard of. And there was Yuuri Katsuki, who’d wiped out completely at his first GPF and hadn’t even _been_ to Worlds last year. Christophe Giacometti rounded out the podium.

JJ called Isabella after the medal ceremony. Where he was disappointed, she was angry, telling him he’d been robbed and that he’d get it next year. It made him feel a little better, knowing she had his back.

At the banquet later, Yuri Plisetsky sat at a table with his coach and an untouched glass of wine, looking miserable. JJ had gotten used to seeing him with Otabek Altin, but Otabek had torn his ACL and missed the competition.

The next time JJ looked over, Yuri was gone.

—

After the banquet, after his parents turned in, he found himself wandering the hotel, too restless to sleep. If Isabella had been there, they might have stayed up talking, but it was finals week and Isabella was home studying. He wasn’t sure where the other skaters had gotten off to—they’d seemed to slip away from the banquet as quietly as Yuri had, leaving him by himself.

JJ hadn’t been looking for him, honestly, but he still managed to find Yuri somehow, tucked into a corner of an unused conference room, sitting on the floor.

He’d grown since last fall, JJ had been able to tell when they stood near each other earlier, but now, crouched by himself in a big empty room, he seemed impossibly small.

Yuri rolled his eyes when he noticed JJ. “What are _you_ doing here.”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I wanted to be _alone_.”

“What’s wrong with your room?”

Yuri looked mildly embarrassed. “My coach is there.”

JJ nodded. He’d shared a room with his parents when he was underage. And speaking of …

“Are you old enough to be drinking that?”

Yuri clutched the bottle of wine closer to his chest, like JJ might steal it away from him. “What are you, my coach? Mind your own business.”

“I’m just saying. Underage drinking, and all alone—people might think you have a problem.”

“Oh, I do,” Yuri sneered. “I’m looking right at him.”

“ _Ha_ ,” JJ laughed. “Well, cheer up. If this doesn’t work out, you could always switch to the ladies division!”

At that, Yuri sprang to his feet, holding the bottle around its neck with one hand and stabbing a finger at JJ with the other.

“Fuck you, JJ! I’m not a girl! And I placed higher than you did anyway, asshole.”

“By one point—”

“Still higher, fucknuts.”

“Hey, retract the claws, kitten, I’m only joking.”

“Don’t call me that. And you’re not fucking funny.”

Honestly, Yuri swore more than anyone JJ had ever met. It was disturbing, but he was pretty sure Yuri wouldn’t appreciate JJ mentioning it.

“Sorry,” he said instead. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Yuri kept glaring at him. JJ shifted his feet uncomfortably. Then he said something he never imagined he’d say.

“You were good out there today,” he told Yuri Plisetsky. “Your program, it’s even better than it was in Barcelona.”

Yuri’s eyes narrowed. “You mean _for a girl_?”

“No,” JJ said. “For a guy. For a men’s finalist at Worlds. Any other year, you would have medaled.”

Some of the tension seemed to ease from Yuri’s shoulders, although he still looked at JJ like JJ might bite him at any moment.

“Thanks,” he said.

JJ grinned. “Do you have something you want to say to me?”

The transformation of Yuri’s face was fun to watch: from confusion to comprehension to outrage to bitter resignation in a matter of seconds.

“Your jumps don’t suck,” Yuri offered.

JJ thought it was probably the nicest thing Yuri would ever say to or about him, so he accepted it with a smile.

There was a noise from the hallway, the sound of housekeeping moving in with vacuum cleaners and trays to clear up the mess from the banquet, and Yuri tensed, clutching his bottle to his chest again.

JJ looked at him and decided to take a risk.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door. “You can’t hide out here. I have my own room. I’ll help you drink that, and you can tell me what’s wrong with my choreography, or call me more bad names or something.”

Yuri looked on the verge of saying no, emphatically, and storming off, but there was another clatter of activity from the hallway and his shoulders sank. Still, they hadn’t called him the Russian punk for nothing.

“Who says I want to share with you?” he asked, holding the bottle tight.

“Then you can drink it yourself,” JJ said. “Makes no difference to me if you end up puking all over yourself in the morning.”

Yuri’s mouth tightened. “Fine,” he muttered. “Whatever.”

“All right,” JJ beamed. “Come on.”

They were finally going to be friends at last.

—

Oh, God. He was drunk. JJ was definitely, absolutely drunk.

Maybe he should have seen this coming. He’d never been a drinker. Drinking led to bad judgment, and sin—not to mention empty calories. Apart from communion wine, he’d never touched the stuff. He’d only offered to help Yuri drink the wine he’d clearly stolen from the banquet earlier in an effort to make friends, and to stop Yuri from making himself sick. It had been like charity, in a way.

Still, it was more fun than he’d been taught it could be. He felt good, lounging on his side on his bed, loose and comfortable, way better than he’d felt after losing his place on the Worlds podium. What did it really matter, anyway? It was just skating.

The lights in his hotel room were very glowy and golden, and so was Yuri Plisetsky, his surly new friend, who was sitting cross-legged on the other queen bed in the room, holding a water glass half-full of red wine.

“You’re getting married? That’s stupid,” Yuri said.

“It’s not stupid,” JJ said. “We're in love.” He raised his own glass, a solitary toast to himself and his future marriage.

“Yeah, whatever, but you’re nineteen. That’s barely older than _me_.”

“When you meet the one, and you know she’s the one, then you don’t want to wait.”

Yuri snorted. He drank more of his wine and grimaced.

“Why don’t you just move in together or something?”

 _Oh, Yuri_ , JJ thought. _You are so young._

“We can’t live together until we’re married, obviously. We don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

“Don’t believe in—what are you talking about? Wait.” Yuri peered at him from under his hair, which had fallen in his eyes. “Are you a virgin?”

JJ ran his finger along the rim of his glass, picking up a droplet of wine. “We’re waiting,” he said smoothly.

Yuri didn't react. And then he did, his face splitting into a huge grin. “You're a virgin,” he marveled.

JJ was unfazed. Or maybe he was just too drunk to care. “We want to be each other's one and only. We want our wedding night to be truly sacred.”

“You want your wedding night to suck, more like.”

JJ frowned. “It's not going to suck.”

“You're going to have no idea what you're doing! You'll look like an idiot. You probably won't even make her come.” Yuri laughed until he fell over, flopping onto his back on the other bed.

“That's …” JJ started to protest he wasn't sure what—Yuri talking about his future bride that way, maybe—but stopped. Sex was natural between husbands and wives. It was an expression of love and their covenant with God. Within the holy bounds of matrimony, there was no purer expression of togetherness. You couldn't be _bad_ at it.

Could you?

He shook his head to clear it. It was only the wine making him feel unsure. What did Yuri know about it, anyway? He was just a kid, and obviously hadn't been saved. “It'll be fine,” he said. “We'll learn together.”

“You’re going to be terrible,” Yuri laughed. “Do you even jerk off, or do you not believe in that, either?”

In fact, JJ had stopped jerking off a year ago, when he’d started thinking about marriage and reading up on sex and the Church. It hadn’t been easy, but then neither was a quadruple loop. Some things were just worth it. And if anyone could accomplish them, no matter how difficult, it was the King.

“Well, do you?” Yuri demanded, rolling onto his side on the other bed.

“Shut up,” JJ mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

“ _Ha_ ,” Yuri crowed and flopped onto his back. When JJ risked a glimpse at him he was looking up at the ceiling. “No wonder you have to get married right away. I’d die if I couldn’t jerk off.” Then, with JJ still watching, he reached down and adjusted the front of his dress pants. JJ’s mouth went dry. He drank some more wine.

“I bet you’ve never even kissed,” Yuri said.

“We’ve kissed,” JJ protested. “There’s nothing wrong with kissing. We’ve kissed a lot, all right?”

“Have you touched her boobs?” Yuri asked the ceiling.

“Don’t talk about my fiancee like that, _Yurochka_.”

“Don’t call me Yurochka, _Jean-Jacques_.”

He butchered the pronunciation of JJ’s full name, but the guttural attempt at French did something weird to JJ. Something unsettling. Something that possessed him to ask, “What about you? Have _you_ ever kissed anyone? Otabek Altin, perhaps?”

JJ watched, fascinated, as Yuri’s entire body stiffened. In a voice as sharp and hard as ice, Yuri said, “Don’t talk about him.”

Now JJ grinned. “Oh ho! Did I hit a sore spot? Not so comfortable now, are you?”

Yuri did seem a lot less comfortable. He rose to a sitting position and shot JJ a look that could have burned holes through his skin. “Shut. The fuck. Up. About Otabek.”

JJ laughed. “All right ... _kitten_.”

JJ had ample time to see Yuri launch himself off the bed and across the gap. His reflexes, dulled by drink, were enough to get his hands up to protect himself, but not enough to protect his glass, which tipped over, spilling the remainder of his wine on the duvet. JJ had no time to consider this before Yuri crashed into him like a 120-pound freight train, knocking him flat and immediately trying to claw his face off.

“I told you not to fucking call me that,” Yuri snarled.

“You made me spill,” JJ accused, trying to shove him off. “It’s going to stain!”

Yuri smacked him, hard, on the side of the head, and JJ’s ears rang. He was fast, scrappy, and vicious, but JJ had six inches and a good 25 pounds on him, so it wasn’t long before he managed to flip them over and pin Yuri’s arms to the mattress, Yuri thrashing and cursing at him in Russian all the while.

With Yuri contained, JJ took stock. There were several drops of red now marring the white duvet, smeared across it, and probably smeared on their clothes as well. They’d taken off their suit jackets when they’d first come to the room, so those were at least safe. Yuri’s pants were black, and cheap, so it probably wouldn’t matter to him, but JJ’s suit was from Harry Rosen, custom made.

“You got red wine on my pants,” JJ chided, carefully enunciating his words so they wouldn’t slur together.

“I don’t give a fuck about your stupid pants,” Yuri gasped, arching his back to try to free himself. Then he froze, and JJ froze, too, as the motion made their groins rub together. They were both hard.

It was the wine, JJ thought. Only the wine.

Beneath him, Yuri looked stunned. In contrast to his usual set of expressions, it made him pleasant to look at, almost pretty.

But then maybe JJ had thought that about him for a while.

He remembered seeing him in Mississauga and mistaking him for a girl, with his long hair and slim form. The hair was longer now, but the form was less girlish, more defined.

It was the wine that made him lean forward to look closer.

It was the wine that made him brush his lips against Yuri’s.

And surely it was the wine that made Yuri part his lips, slide his tongue into JJ’s mouth, and arch up against him again, rubbing the bulge in his pants against the matching bulge in JJ’s.

JJ pressed his mouth closer. Yuri’s breath was sweet, his mouth tasted like the wine they’d been drinking, and it was was deliciously warm. JJ hadn’t been lying; he did kiss Isabella a lot, but not like this, not on top of her, never this hot and wet and filthy. If they ever did, he wasn’t sure they’d be able to control themselves and honor their commitment to wait.

Like now.

In their shifting and moving against each other, Yuri’s arms were freed, and he wrapped them both around JJ’s back, pulling him down. It was easy to let Yuri drag him to where he wanted him, to lay on top of him and kiss his sweet, burning mouth.

One of Yuri’s hands came up to touch his hair, and JJ thought he felt a hitch in Yuri’s breath, a slight spasm in his body, but Yuri just moved JJ’s head a little and kissed him harder.

They rocked against each other, kissing, and JJ thought about how long it had been since he’d felt this good, since he’d made his body feel this way. He’d stopped because it was wrong, because it was sinful, because he wanted his marriage to Isabella to be pure. He still wanted that, almost as much as he wanted gold.

Yet Yuri was so hot beneath him, so warm and alive, and rubbing against him made JJ feel better than standing atop any podium. It was impossible to stop. It was wrong, so wrong—

He pulled his mouth away from Yuri’s, closed his eyes against the flushed face and wet, pink mouth, and gasped, “I can’t do this.”

Under him, Yuri was still. When JJ ventured to open his eyes again, Yuri was staring at him. “We’re already doing this,” he said.

“We have to stop. I made a promise.” Resolutely, JJ rolled off of him and sat up. A moment later he pushed himself to his feet and headed for the bathroom. He was drunk, just drunk. That was all.

Yuri was on him in an instant, grabbing him by the arms, spinning him around and shoving him against a wall before JJ could get a word out. His arms were around JJ’s neck, forcing JJ’s head down, and then his mouth was back on JJ’s, biting teeth and wet tongue. JJ pulled away, but froze as Yuri grasped his belt in one hand and, with the other, palmed JJ’s erection through his pants.

He threw his head back, hitting it against the wall with a dull thump, and immediately thrust into Yuri’s hand with a gasp.

Yuri was already working on his fly. “You’re going to be a terrible fucking lay,” he snarled. “You’re going to disappoint her then like you disappointed her today.”

“Ah,” JJ gasped as Yuri got his hand inside and hot skin met hot skin. “Yuri, don’t—”

“Shut up,” Yuri hissed and jacked him harder.

“This is wrong, this is so wrong,” JJ moaned. Yuri was pressed so close to his front that he could hardly see what was happening down there, but it was a little bit painful—and exquisitely good.

“I said shut the fuck up,” Yuri repeated, louder. “Or do you want me to stop?” His hand stilled, still wrapped tightly around JJ’s cock.

JJ sucked in a breath and closed his eyes tight. He pressed his hands flat against the wall behind him and held very still. Then he shook his head. “Don’t stop.”

Yuri pushed one hand against the wall by JJ’s head, steadying them both. The other hand on him was dry, moving fast, and JJ thought about telling him to slow down, grabbing his wrist and showing Yuri what he liked—what he used to like, anyway. He’d spent so much time putting it out of his mind, but now it all came rushing back, the sweet pleasure of touching himself, the ecstasy of coming.

“Oh God,” he said breathlessly, “oh, _mon dieu_ …”

Yuri did something with his wrist that had JJ scrabbling against the wall, trying to stay upright as his knees threatened to give out. It had been so long, so damn long.

“Ah, God,” he groaned. “Yuri, Yuri— _chaton_ —”

He turned his head to the side when he couldn’t take it anymore, and found Yuri’s forearm there, slim and pale where he’d rolled up the cuffs of his shirt. JJ pressed his mouth to it, bit it, not hard enough to break skin but enough to silence his cries as he came all over Yuri’s hand and his own clothes.

They were both quiet for several seconds, JJ struggling to catch his breath, Yuri just watching.

Yuri broke the silence. “Fuck,” he said. “You come quick.”

He wiped his hand on the front of JJ’s dress shirt, then tucked JJ back into his pants. He didn’t bother zipping JJ up or refastening his belt.

“Maybe if you jerked off once in a while you’d have some stamina,” he added, then left JJ leaning against the wall and walked into the bathroom. JJ heard the sink running.

He looked down at the ruin of his dress shirt—at least this spill was white—and his unfastened pants. With clumsy fingers, he unbuttoned the shirt, crumpling it into a ball and dropping it on the floor. He slid his hands under his pants and underwear, removing everything in one move. He peeled his socks off and left them in the pile.

His bed, the one he’d slept on the night before, was the one with the wine spilled on it. It wasn’t much, maybe a teaspoon, and it was probably dry now, but he didn’t want to sleep anywhere near it. He made his way over to the other, unused bed—the one Yuri had lain on—and lay down to sleep.

The water in the bathroom was still running.

—

Helsinki to Toronto was a nearly 12-hour flight. JJ spent as much of it as possible pretending to be asleep. His parents had both given him stern looks of disapproval that morning, looks that had made his blood run cold until he realized there was no way they could know about everything that had happened last night. The drinking, okay; he’d woken up with a hangover and between the bloodshot eyes and the puking, that was hard to hide. But the rest of it—no. If they’d known about that, if they’d somehow seen from his face what he’d done, it would have meant much worse than head-shaking disappointment.

Isabella came over to the house immediately after JJ let her know they’d arrived. She flew into his arms, kissing him on the cheek. He held her, breathing in deeply, and tried not cry.

“You were wonderful,” she whispered into his ear.

“You’ll get it next year,” she said, stroking his neck.

“I can’t wait to be your wife,” she said, before pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

JJ was restless. The long flight had done nothing to improve his hangover and neither would a run, but he needed to burn off his energy somehow, to purge what was left of this feeling from his body. To sweat it out, if possible.

He changed from his travel clothes into running gear. As he pulled his sweater over his head, Isabella, behind him, said, “What is that?”

JJ let the sweater drop onto his bed. His t-shirt, which had ridden up, fell back into place. He turned to look at her. “What’s what?”

“That mark on your back,” Isabella said, taking him gently by the shoulders and turning him around. “Did you fall in practice?”

JJ arched his neck so quickly trying to look at his back that he nearly gave himself whiplash. Of course he couldn’t see anything from that angle, so he moved to the full-length mirror that adorned his closet door, lifted his shirt, and looked.

On his lower back, directly above his stylized initials, inked on him in what looked like Sharpie, were two symbols:

# ПꙔ

“What _is_ that?” Isabella asked again.

JJ thought he might be sick again.

“Just a joke,” he said weakly. “Just someone’s idea of a joke.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if the mirror text shows up right--and if the rest of the fic works, too.


End file.
